The Intimacy Series
by MyPrivateLaughter
Summary: Perhaps Sherlock and John didn't become intimate suddenly after a breathless row or in the euphoria of solving a case. Perhaps it was after a gradual series of unlikely events during a particularly hot summer...
1. Chapter 1: Sleeping Beside You

1. Sleeping Beside You

'_Heat wave' is an appropriate term,_ John types into his blog. _I feel as though I am suffocating beneath the sea of heat, soaked to the skin in sweat, my brain is starved of oxygen._

John is sitting at his laptop in shorts and a white t-shirt and that feels like far too many clothes. Sherlock is reclining nearby on the sofa, cradling and absorbing a weighty looking textbook. John allows himself to lazily observe his flatmate, knowing that Sherlock isn't aware of his surroundings when taking in and deconstructing knowledge.

There is a light sheen of sweat glistening on his alabaster skin, which is hardly surprising. Sherlock's choice of clothing does not reflect the severity of the heat enclosed within 221B Baker Street. His legs are encased within creased black trousers and a white shirt clings to his chest. Only his long bony feet and forearms are exposed where he has rolled up his sleeves.

John wonders how long he could sit there, watching the flourish of Sherlock's fingers as they flick over each page at a faster than average speed. John doesn't know which is most peculiar, that it would go unnoticed if he gazed at Sherlock all day, or that this is sort of exactly what John would love to do.

Sherlock clears his throat and the soft noise punctures John's reverie and makes his eyes flick hastily back to his laptop. His blog is open on the desktop, in the middle of writing a post. John thinks for a moment and then continues typing.

_On meeting Sherlock Holmes, many people commented on him seeming otherworldly, ethereal. This could have been a product of his pale skin and standoffishness. I believe, though, it stemmed from the fact he rarely, if ever, expressed any need for bodily comforts. He never said, "I'm tired" or "I'm hungry" or "God, it's so hot! I'm sweating like a pig", all of which are things we've all probably said more than once in the last 24 hours (if you live anywhere near this swollen heat trap of a city). This is just one more way that Sherlock was different from us mere mortals. _

John rereads the passage twice and then holds down the delete button until it is all eaten back up by the cursor.

His readers are interested in Sherlock, sometimes worryingly so, and they enjoy it when his posts give an insight into the peculiar personality. John has found himself resenting it though. He could write a series of novels just about the way in which Sherlock is stretched out right now, the position of his limbs against the brown leather cushions of the sofa, the rise and fall of his chest beneath that ludicrously tight shirt. Why should his readers get that though? Why should they have the chance to know Sherlock Holmes a fraction closer to how well John Watson does?

John writes his blog in the past tense now, continuing the fiction that Sherlock is decomposing, surrounded by several tons of earth. It's not a particularly well-kept secret within criminal circles, but Sherlock has agreed to keep a low profile to prevent a media storm. Luckily, public interest is a fickle thing and the fact that a man closely resembling the late Sherlock Holmes has been sighted several times between the door to 221B Baker Street and a taxi has escaped the national press. Unfortunately, this means that they haven't had a single client; as most potential clients believe the fiction that Sherlock isn't exactly open for business. Even with their pooled resources, John is having a difficult time working out how they'll be pay Mrs Hudson the rent next month, without a grovelling visit to Mr Holmes Senior.

Food is the problem. If John didn't continually find himself giving into the unaccommodating desire to eat then they would spend half the money that they do. Sherlock survives on air and coffee and will only eat when John reminds him to.

"Would you genuinely forget if I didn't make you?" John had asked once. They were in a Chinese, where John had ordered Sherlock three meals.

"That's what I have you for," Sherlock had responded nonchalantly, elegantly twirling noodles around his chopsticks.

"To remind you to eat. I knew there was a good reason you keep me around."

Sherlock had smiled. "Why else do people have partners?"

John had felt his lips tighten into a grimace. "I'm not your partner."

"Yes, you are." Sherlock had said it as though that was it, conversation over.

"Actually, no," John had corrected. "There are several things that we would have to do for me to constitute as your boyfriend."

"Important things?"

"Urm, quite important, yes." John hadn't been sure if the detective was being genuine or merely provoking.

Sherlock had waved his chopsticks in the air while illustrating his point. "We are grown men who live together, share our accounts, enjoy our free time together…"

"Yes," John acknowledged, "and yet some crucial things missing!"

"Such as?"

John couldn't help sighing in frustration. How typical of Sherlock Holmes not to understand the fine line between friendships and relationships. "We don't sleep next to each other, we actually rarely touch each other ever, we don't share things intimately and we definitely don't kiss each other."

Sherlock waved these away as insignificant. "Aside from those things?"

"Without those things, Sherlock, we are your average friends who share a flat."

"Average? How boring. How do you stand the tedium of being average, John?"

It is a verifiable fact that John is no Sherlock. He is stuck being the normal and average sidekick constantly blinded by the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. The essential proof is that John can't just _not eat_. Right now he feels confirmation of this in the pit of his stomach. All he wants to do is go down to corner shop and buy up their supply of ice-lollies. His mind slips to the idea of peeling back the frosted wrapper and the sticky sweetness as he lifts it to his lips, the quenching cool as he flicks his tongue along it.

"I'm going to the shop," John says, getting to his feet and finding his wallet.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his book, but says, "Fascinating."

If possible, the streets of London are hotter than the flat. John immediately regrets stepping outside 221B but has to press on all the same. Down the street to the shop, into the shop, pay for goods, back towards home.

As he climbs back up the stairs he can see Sherlock pacing the room.

The detective stops and glares as John walks in. "Where have you been?"

"To the shops." John holds the shopping bag up as evidence. "I did tell you. I actually said 'I'm going to the shops' and you did reply."

"Hm," Sherlock responds, sounding unconvinced.

John moves into the kitchen and places the shopping down on the table."Why, did you need anything? Jesus. This ice-cream is melted already."

Sherlock jumps onto an armchair and balances on it like a cat. "I just don't think you should suddenly disappear."

"I'm the one who is entitled to abandonment issues." A cool waft of air fans from the freezer as John opens the door and he considers just leaving it open or sticking his head inside.

"Yes, well, you have a psychiatrist. I don't."

John chuckles at the thought of his psychiatrist being confronted with Sherlock Holmes. "That would be an interesting encounter. I'd love to see her try to get you to discuss your _feelings_."

A fleeting smile flicks across Sherlock's face in a distracted way. "'Feelings'?"

"You don't have to admit it. I know you have them."

"Let's keep it that way then, with only you knowing."

John can't resist looking up at Sherlock in a certain way that seems reciprocated by a warm gaze and slight smile from the oddly perched detective.

Then John shakes himself mentally. If there's something warm about Sherlock's smile, he reminds himself, it's the fact that it's 40 degrees in this flat. "I have to have a shower," he says. "I am so damn hot."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Urm, John, when you go upstairs something may strike you as odd. I would like you to know now that I was conducting an experiment-"

John stops walking. "Oh god."

"-And the results were enlightening."

"What?" John demands. "What did you do?"

"Really, it was in the interest of science. It was for a case."

John instinctively scrunches his fists into balls. "Tell me what you did to my bedroom now or so help me god!"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I am afraid you may have to use my bed for a while."

"Why, Sherlock?" John cries in frustration. "Why wouldn't you have conducted the experiment on your own bed?"

"Well, obviously my bed is barely used so it wouldn't have been representative of an average person's mattress. Twenty-five percent of the moisture your body emits during the night is absorbed by your mattress."

"Of course it is," John sneers.

"There's no need to be like that."

"Like what?"

"Like that. I've already said you can sleep in my bed."

"I can't sleep in your bed, Sherlock."

"Someone might as well."

There's an anger boiling within John though that isn't natural. Is it the heat? "I fail to believe you actually never require the use of a bed. I am a doctor. I know how bodies work."

"I'll sleep on the sofa."

"How accommodating of you," John responds, through gritted teeth. "What exactly did you do to my bed? No, don't tell me. I'll use my eyes." He takes the stairs one at a time with infuriated stamps. The door to his bedroom is open and he doesn't even step over the boundary before his head implodes with anger.

"What sort of _fucking_ experiment was this?" John yells down the stairs.

John was in the military. He knows how to make a bed and generally is in the habit of keeping it neat and clean. 'Neat' and 'clean' are the exact reverse of adjectives he could use to describe his bed now.

Aside from an actual corpse, John's bed bears all the signs of an extremely violent series of murders. The bedding and mattress have been ripped apart and their contents scattered. What can only be blood is soaked into the sheets and splattered around the walls. The bed frame itself was collapsed in the middle as though someone had taken a chainsaw to it. Not an ambiguous 'someone', a very real and very frustrating 'someone'.

* * *

><p><em>In Baker Street, there were eating days and non-eating days. Eating days were when I would make more nutritious meals, attempting to hit all the food groups, and demand that Sherlock ate with me. The other days I just ate whatever was left in the fridge and Sherlock just did not eat. His response to my carefully prepared meals was usually distaste, but there was a comforting domesticity to eating days, a familiarity resembling family.<em>

Today is an eating day.

"It _was_ for a case," Sherlock insists, digging reluctantly into his salmon salad.

John shrugs his shoulders. "We don't have a case."

"Lestrade does. He needs a little help, bless him."

"Lestrade?"

"Yes."

John stops eating and puts down his fork. "You've told him you're alive?"

"No, obviously not," Sherlock says with a slight rolling of his eyes.

"Then how would you know about his cases?"

"Unlike some who type at two miles per hour, I do know how to use a computer, John."

"You hacked into their system?" John can't keep the disapproval from his voice.

"Is there a way of saying that which doesn't sound so illegal?"

"No."

"Yes, then, that's what I did." Sherlock continues to eat and ignores John's unimpressed look.

"How did it help then?"

"What?"

"The decimation of my bed. How was that an experiment?"

"Percolation of human blood on a mattress over time. Strength exerted and likely implement used to shatter pine. Likely position of the body when -"

"Alright, alright, but we really can't afford to buy Mrs Hudson a new bed."

"We'll _save_." Sherlock says the word as though it's disgustingly ordinary.

"Yes, and save what, exactly?"

"Well, I could always…"

"No."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You didn't know what I was going to suggest."

"You are not hacking into Mycroft's accounts."

Sherlock laughs but doesn't deny this was what he was thinking. "I doubt he trusts the banks with his money."

"He must have a vault in the Mycroft mansion where he keeps his cash in wads of fifty pound notes."

"More likely bars of solid gold."

"That would be difficult to use in the corner shop, to buy polos with."

"You've smelt my brothers breath. He doesn't eat polos."

It's times like this, away from the murder cases, the mysteries, the drama, that John is reminded of exactly why he and Sherlock get on so well. It isn't a shared love of the bizarre things in life, that wouldn't be nearly enough. It's exactly this. Taking the piss out of Mycroft Holmes together. That's how John knows they love each other, even if only one of them is burning with desire for the other.

* * *

><p>Sleeping in Sherlock's bed isn't as erotically charged as John expected. There was an initial excitement when he sank his head into the pillow. Of course Sherlock hadn't changed the sheets. The smell of him rose up and surrounded John in a cloud of comfort that tingled with pleasure. Soon though tiredness surpassed the novelty of the situation and John just slept.<p>

For three nights, John sleeps in Sherlock's bed until it unconsciously slips into normality.

On the forth day, Sherlock is in a bad mood. Sherlock's bad moods are similar to those of a three year old, but longer lasting. His bottom lip is more prominent than customary and he manages not to speak to John all day, except to make some sulky comments about his whistling.

John attributes the mood to boredom. Despite his love of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was not designed to be housebound. He's like the slightly wild housecat, who is always looking for inventive ways to escape.

It's when John wakes in the night, hot, sweating and in need of some cool glass of water, that he suspects the real reason for Sherlock's mood.

In the living room, Sherlock is asleep at the desk with his head resting on the laptop's keyboard. Obviously sleep deprivation is catching up with the great Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," John says, shaking the detectives shoulders.

"What?" Sherlock groans in response.

"You're exhausted."

Sherlock lifts his head with a fierce scowl on his face. "Excellent observation."

"Why don't you sleep on the sofa?"

"I can't," he growls, fingering a crick in his neck.

"You can't sleep on the desk."

"And yet I was doing, until you disturbed me."

John puts his hands on his hips. "Now you mention it, you do come across as extraordinarily well rested."

"You said it yourself. We can't afford a new bed."

"Well, sleep in the bed with me then."

Sherlock regards John with a chillingly satisfied smile. "That was one of your things though."

"What?"

"Your things that would make us boyfriends."

John narrows his eyes, surprised that this was something Sherlock had chosen to remember. "There are still other things on that list though, that we don't do."

"Three. There are three other things."

"Right. Yes, well, sharing a bed with someone whose own bed has accidently been destroyed does not make you gay, Sherlock. Don't worry."

"I wasn't worried," Sherlock clarifies. "Sexuality has never concerned me."

"Naturally."

* * *

><p>These are the exact circumstances that lead to Sherlock and John laying back in bed together, sharing a thin sheet.<p>

John is on his side, as close to the edge of the mattress as possible. It is painfully hot and neither of them is wearing anything that couldn't be termed underwear. No matter how he tries to put it from his mind, John can't help picturing how small the gap is between his skin and Sherlock's, how easy it would be to accidently brush against the toned muscles of his body. A fear grips him: that he'll be woken up by a disgruntled Sherlock who was being humped by his unconscious friend. John attempts to configure how likely this eventuality is.

Sleep evades him. A combination of insufferable heat and fear of sexually assaulting his friend. Suddenly, his mind is startled by Sherlock, not awake, but speaking.

"I… owe you…" he's murmuring, over and over again. "I owe you."

John wonders whether or not to wake the detective up. Before he can decide, he is startled to hear his own voice pass through Sherlock's lips.

"John… no. No!" Sherlock's arms thrash out at an invisible foe. "Not him! No!" He's almost screaming now.

Instinctively, John cradles his friend. "Sherlock," he whispers, "wake up. It's alright. Sherlock, I'm here."

"John!" Sherlock's eyes burst open and he blinks up at John, bewilderedly, disorientated.

"Sherlock, you were dreaming. Everything's fine."

Sherlock pushes himself up in the bed and looks around at the dark room. "Moriaty?"

"Gone," John says. "He's dead."

Sherlock rubs his face with his hands and then ruffles them through his hair. "Dead."

"It was a dream."

"Yes," Sherlock says, visibly pulling himself together, "obviously. They always are dreams, John." Then he turns to the doctor with a serious look on his face. "I'm afraid I'm not the best person to sleep next to."

"How often do you have these dreams?"

"That depends on how often I sleep," Sherlock says, lying back down onto the pillows and lifting his arms above his head. He takes a deep breath and then smiles.

"What?"

"No, nothing."

"What's worth smiling about?"

"Nothing. It's just that I was right. It happens regularly but still never gets old."

"Of course you were right," John sighs, falling back onto the bed as well. "About what?"

"About nothing."

"What?" John is suddenly suspicious that this is going to be something he's not going to like.

"I suspected it wouldn't feel so awful if you were nearby for verification."

"What does that mean?"

"That means," Sherlock slowly admits, "I have no idea how to hack into New Scotland Yard's computer system."

John closes his eyes in despair. "Seriously? Seriously, Sherlock?"

"Seriously."

"There was no experiment with my bed."

"Well deduced."

"You could have just asked!"

"Ask my heterosexual flatmate to share my bed? Even with my limited knowledge of personal relationships, I suspected that wouldn't have worked."

John considers this for a moment. The truly odd thing is that Sherlock was wrong about that. Perhaps that's because John's heterosexuality had become a rather blurry concept in recent months. "You underestimate me," he says.

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to face him. John has the uncomfortable feeling of being analysed. "You'll stay?"

John smiles. "We can't both have abandonment issues."

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock slept with his mouth open a little way.<em>

_He didn't like to sleep. I'm not a psychologist, but in my professional opinion this was due to a number of contributing factors. Sleeping is obviously a 'waste of time' to the active mind, a time when his productivity was at naught. I also feel certain that he saw the need to sleep as a very human weakness, one that he should be able to overcome. Finally, Sherlock had nightmares. Perhaps this is a natural experience for someone with the number of enemies Sherlock had created, but I think they are something he only developed when he came to realise that he did, in fact, have something extraordinarily precious to lose. 'What was that thing?' you obviously desire to know._

_It was friendship. It was love._

John rereads the passage twice and then holds down the delete button until it is all eaten back up by the cursor.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>

* * *

><p><em>:D Hope you like so far! Next is 'Touching You' <em>and this isn't intended to be <em>as sle<em>azy <em>as it sounds. I'd <em>___totally appreciate your comments/suggestions! Th_anks for re_ading xxx___


	2. Chapter 2: Touching You

2. Touching You

"It's really not as sleazy as it sounds."

John folds his arms and glares at the Detective Inspector. "I am not going speed dating, Greg."

"Oh, come on! It's just a bit of fun!" Lestrade laughs and claps John on the shoulder.

"Fun? Seriously? How low exactly are your expectations of this evening?"

The beer garden is the best place in London for anyone over the age of eighteen to go on an afternoon like this, with the heat wave stretching into its second week. Lestrade is wearing shades and he blinks away the sweat that is trickling down his brow. John clings to the cool beer in front of him, leaning over the pub bench.

"I just heard about it and thought it would be a laugh."

"Why are you interested anyway? You're supposed to be married," John reminds him.

Lestrade massages the back of his neck with one hand and lowers his fake smile. "Alright, look, I wasn't going to say anything but people are worried about you, John."

"Oh yeah? Why?" John responds irritably.

Lestrade gives him a look that means it should be pretty obvious. "Have you been on a date since…?"

"Since Sherlock died?" The ridiculousness of this statement does strike John as funny as he knows for a fact that the living and breathing Sherlock is at home right this second analysing the dust that has collected on John's laptop screen. Because he'd had a text informing him as much.

Lestrade's mouth twists into an awkward grimace. "Well, exactly."

"I don't need a shag to get over Sherlock, if that's what you think." John tries to sound angry again, but he's never been a good actor. Sherlock was the one who could pluck tears from thin air, just to get information out of someone.

"John, I'm not suggesting that you need to 'get over' him," Lestrade says with worrying sincerity. "We all miss him. Every day."

"Really? Everyone? Even Anderson?" John makes a mental note to inform Sherlock of this when he gets back.

"The point is that since you moved back to Baker Street I've hardly heard from you. Have you even left that flat in the last week?"

"Obviously," John says indicating with his hands that he has in fact left the flat.

"You know what I mean."

"Right, ok, I appreciate your concern, but I don't think speed dating is the answer."

Lestrade shrugs and takes another sip of his pint. "Just trying to cheer you up."

At than moment, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He feels a jolt in the pit of his stomach because he knows who it's from. There's only one person who will text him twice within twenty minutes of leaving the flat.

_John, I need you right now. SH_

From experience, John knows that Sherlock uses the term 'need' liberally. The word is usually utilised when 'have a mild desire for' could suffice.

_Why? I'm out with Lestrade_. _JW_

Sherlock's response is instant:

_Right now. SH_

"Anything wrong?" Lestrade asks.

"No, nothing."

_I'm not telling you where the cigarettes are._

_I will be dead when you come home if you don't leave in the next few minutes. SH_

John sighs and puts his phone away. "Sorry, Greg. That was Mrs Hudson. There is a bit of an, urm, emergency actually back home."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, something to do with the boiler."

"Mrs Hudson is texting now?"

"Yes, we bought her a phone the other day."

"We?"

John bites his tongue. Why would he have involved Sherlock in a lie designed to keep his existence a secret? Perhaps Sherlock has been right about John's IQ. "Yes, me and her sister."

Lestrade accepts this without a thought. After all, John is the honest type, usually. "Send my love to her. You know she sent me a cake the other day. An actual cake to my office."

John laughs because it's so believable. "I think she has a soft spot after you commented on her curtains."

"I'll have to ask her for her number!"

"Seriously," John say, getting to his feet, "don't."

* * *

><p>"What's wrong?" John demands as he takes the stairs up to the flat two at a time. "If you just want me to tell you where the cigarettes are then I am going to be really –"<p>

He stops speaking because he can already smell that there is a cigarette lit within their flat. The soft sting of it drifts down the hall towards him. He slowly pushes the door open to reveal Sherlock, leaning against the desk, eyes closed, taking a deep drag on the cigarette.

"You found them."

"Not one of your most inventive hiding places," Sherlock comments, his eyes still closed, his face even paler than usual behind the languid smoke. "On top of the cupboard."

John goes into the kitchen to open a window. The air outside is hot and heavy, still as the dead. "Good willpower, Sherlock, well done. Why, pray tell, did you want me, as you are clearly not dying."

"As usual, John, you are unobservant to the point of blindness."

John looks at his flatmate. Sherlock pulls his hand away from where it has been pressing against his back. It is red.

"Sher… What happened?" John rushes forwards.

"I am losing blood rather rapidly from an open back wound." Sherlock's explanation is evidenced by a slight turn. His blue shirt is dark and gleaming.

"Jesus Christ! Take it off now, Sherlock. Sit down."

"Yes, doctor," Sherlock acquiesces, pulling his shirt off over his head, swaying slightly, then dropping into the chair.

The wound is deeper than John had hoped, about eight centimetres long and positively gushing with blood. John runs into his bedroom and grabs the old med kit from beneath his chest of drawers. Ripping open a sterile dressing as he races back into the living room, he presses is hard against the gash. _Have to control the bleeding._

"Hold this on. Really tightly."

He quickly analyses the situation:

_Cool skin, rapid pulse – Sherlock is suffering shock._

"I thought you were analysing dust particles!" John cries.

"That led onto bigger fish."

"Sharks?"

_Breathing evident and not laboured – hopefully no collapsed lung. Position and angle of wound makes injury to spinal cord unlikely._

"I was standing on the back of the chair to reach the cigarettes. It was a slight miscalculation of footing and I grabbed at the mirror as I fell. The mirror fell first and shattered." He picks up a shard of glass resembling a machete in size and shape. It is glistening with blood. "And then I fell."

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock challenges.

"I'm calling an ambulance."

"No, just sort me out."

John types in the number. "You're going to A and E."

"Don't be dense, John." Its clear Sherlock is aiming for disdain but his voice is so weak it comes out as pleading. "Could you think of a place less appropriate for a man who has faked his own death to go?"

"There will be nothing fake about your being dead if you don't go to A and E."

"You know, John, I always appreciated your lack of melodrama."

"I'm calling an ambulance. You need intravenous fluids, chest x-ray, CT of the upper torso -"

Sherlock grabs John's hand and grips onto his fingers. "Please," he hisses, his eyes boring into John's, desperate and exposed. "I just want you."

John is engulfed in Sherlock's gaze. "You need help."

Sherlock's fingers are cool but strong. They entangle John's, wrapping themselves around his, reaching up his wrist as though they want to hold more.

"Please."

John's other hand puts away his phone in defeat. "If you show any signs of serious blood loss, or laboured breathing, or loss of sensation -"

"Fine." Their hands stay connected. "Do you have a suture kit?"

"Yes. "

"Good." Sherlock loosens his grip and John allows his fingers to slide away, watching the detective as he does so.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is lying on his front on the sofa, John sat leaning close over him. They'd controlled the bleeding, it wasn't as deep as it had first seemed, and now John was making small and neat stitches into Sherlock's skin. John likes sewing him back together.<p>

"I never liked that mirror anyway," he says.

"You looked in it enough." The cushions he lies on muffle Sherlock's voice.

"Yes, you're right, Sherlock," John's voice drips with sarcasm, "I am the vain one."

Sherlock chuckles. "It's not vanity when there's cause."

"Yes, I'm sure that's how the proverb goes."

The terror in John's heart has dissipated somewhat. He'd felt as though his soul was being ripped from his chest when he saw that blood on Sherlock's hand. He was back there, on the street outside Bart's, grasping at the lifeless body. John wanted Sherlock to never bleed, never age, just stay exactly as he was, the most perfect creature, untouchable.

"Thank you, by the way."

John cuts off the thread and sits back in his seat. "For what?"

"Not going speed dating with Lestrade."

The doctor can't help laughing. "How could you possibly know that he wanted us to go speed dating?"

Sherlock lifts his head and gives an infuriatingly knowing smile.

"How?" John demands.

"I heard you telling Mrs Hudson a minute ago," Sherlock admits. "Done?"

"Done."

Sherlock slowly sits up and winces.

"Please be careful with that. It's tender."

"Yes, it is."

"Why 'thank you'?" John asks. "So what if we did decide to go?"

"Having a new woman in your life wouldn't be sympatric to everyone thinking I'm dead." Sherlock reaches over his shoulder and fingers the stitches.

"Don't touch it. It'll get infected. Anyway I'm not sure that speed dating is really the place to find meaningful relationships."

"You seem to pick them up everywhere you go."

Did John detect a hint of jealousy mingled with that disgusted tone? He squeezes some ointment from a tube onto his fingers. "Turn around."

"What is that?"

"Just antibiotic, Neosporin, to help it close up."

Sherlock nods and turns his back to John. "Does it need a bandage?"

"Only if you want to put your shirt back on."

"What?" Sherlock turns and narrows his eyes at John.

"You could just let it air, but your shirt would irritate it."

"I'm not just going to prance around topless, John."

"Fine, I'll put some gauze on it."

* * *

><p>"John! John… no, please…"<p>

John is now surprisingly used to waking up hearing Sherlock crying out his name in distress. He yawns and turns over in the bed. "Sherlock," he groans, touching him on the shoulder. "Wake up." His skin is hot, damp with sweat and pale in the darkness. He looks ghostly and beautiful.

"Run, damn it! … Don't!"

"Sherlock!" John shakes him and the detective rolls to faces him, his eyes flickering open.

"You've got to run!" Sherlock gasps.

"Why?"

"They're… they're going to find us." His voice is weak and desperate.

"Sherlock, you were dreaming." John holds his shoulder and squeezes it. "No one's coming to find us."

The fog slowly lifts from Sherlock's bright eyes and he shakes his head, saying nothing.

"Are you ok?" John asks, disconnecting himself from Sherlock's body.

Sherlock nods, looking away.

"Does your back hurt?"

He shakes his head.

"Liar."

Quiet passes between then and John listens to far off wail of a police siren. He yawns again and turns over, kicking his hot feet out from under the thin sheet. Sherlock's hand startles him as it reaches beneath the covers, brushing his waist and grasping at his hand.

"Sherlock?" John says questioningly, looking back at the man he now shares a bed with. There's something broken, sad and un-Sherlock like about the person gazing back at him.

"I just need to feel that you're here, when I sleep."

"Ok," John says quickly. "That's fine."

They look at each other, their hands pressed hotly together. John feels his eyelids drooping. "You don't have to worry, you know," he murmurs before sinking into sleep, "I'll always be here… with you."

When John wakes, he knows Sherlock is gone before he opens his eyes. His hand is empty.

* * *

><p>That afternoon, Mycroft graces them with a visit. His face is red and shiny as a hot tomato, but his tie is still tight and neat around his neck. He declines the offer of tea.<p>

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asks, glaring down at the man sitting not quite comfortably in their armchair.

"I merely wished to enquire after your health, dear brother."

"Well, as you can see, I am fine," Sherlock lifts his arms and turns on the spot. "One of the benefits of living with a doctor: he's kept me hydrated during this heat wave."

Perhaps Mycroft notices the slight grimace as Sherlock moves his arms, or maybe he somehow already knew. "And the wound on your back? How is that doing today?"

Sherlock pouts, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. "It's fine, thank you."

"Rather irresponsible of you not to go to A and E," Mycroft comments, twirling his umbrella.

"Yes, irresponsibility has been an earmark of being your younger brother."

"I wasn't talking to you, Sherlock."

John had just sat at his laptop, in order to allow them to bicker, but suddenly he feels all eyes on him. Mycroft's look is the worst kind of judgemental, totally scathing. John turns to Sherlock, hoping for what, a defence?

This is exactly what Sherlock immediately provides. "I lost roughly two pints of blood," he says. "My estimated blood volume is 9.2 pints. I could have lost another pint and not needed a transfusion."

"Fascinating," Mycroft sneers.

"He didn't need to go to A and E," John offers. "I've dealt with worse wounds than that much further from a hospital before."

"And the fact that Sherlock no doubt begged you not to call an ambulance had nothing to do with your impartial medical decision?"

There's a pause that lingers awkwardly between the three men.

"Well, thank you for flying visit, _dear brother_," Sherlock says, reducing the distance between himself and John. "I thought being trapped in this flat pretending to be dead would be tedious but you've really brightened the day up." He leans over John's shoulder, looking at the computer screen. "Are you still blogging?"

"Occasionally," he says, quickly closing the lid.

Mycroft takes the not so subtle hint and gets to his feet. "John, perhaps you could show me out."

"What, so you two can have a private little conversation about me? How _mature_," Sherlock scoffs.

Mycroft merely looks expectantly at John, who sighs and gets up to lead him down the stairs and out into the heat of Baker Street.

Outside, Mycroft is straight on the point. "I have a somewhat personal question to ask you, John."

"Alright," John says, not sure how he's supposed to respond.

"Are you sleeping with my brother?"

John splutters and almost chokes. "What?"

"Intimacy has never been Sherlock's interest before, but I can't help noticing that…"

"That what?"

A slight frown passes over Mycroft's face and he leans slightly on his umbrella. "Perhaps you have not perceived how your relationship has outwardly altered."

"Perhaps not."

He sighs as though this is becoming a longer conversation than he had hoped for. "Clearly you aren't aware that you have a more physically comfortable relationship with Sherlock now that anyone ever has, including his mother. Your hand on his arm, his waist, his hands on your shoulders, they are tell-tale signs."

"They are not," John says, firmly, feeling his own cheeks begin to flush and not with the heat.

"You're not sharing a bed then?"

John sighs. "Yes, we _are_ sharing a bed. Mine was broken."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and John doesn't blame him. He feels flustered and frustrated, which isn't a good combination.

"We're not having sex though!"

The noise Mycroft emits is un-interpretable. Scepticism?

"I understand you are concerned about him, but so am I. I feed and water him. I take as best care of him as a grown man should have to take for another grown man."

"I understand," Mycroft says simply. He leaves it at that.

* * *

><p>John changes Sherlock's dressing before going to bed.<p>

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing."

"Unlike one of us, I have the capacity to observe my surroundings. You've been reticent all afternoon. It would take an imbecile not to assume something was wrong. Don't insult me."

"I wouldn't dream of it!" John doesn't know what to say. Ultimately, he's not sure what exactly _is _wrong. He's loved having Sherlock closer to him. Does that thought worry him? Or is it just that someone's actually noticed this? Is it most worrying that Mycroft must know, must see that all John wants to do is kiss that beautiful pale neck, just then where it meet the collar bone, and then the underside of his chin that you can only see when he stretches his head backwards.

John sighs and admits the obvious. "Your brother thinks we're sleeping together."

"He's not wrong," Sherlock points out.

"No, he's not. That's sort of the problem."

There's a pause and then Sherlock says quickly without looking at hm, "Then I won't sleep here anymore."

"No!" John cries, a little more expressively than was probably necessary. "That's not what I meant. I don't mind us being in the same bed. I don't mind at all, even though you come to bed ridiculously late and disturb me, and you have nightmares and wake me. And you get up crazy early so I am feeling generally quite unrested recently. But… _I don't mind_."

Sherlock's eyes latch onto John's and so they know what he's trying to say. This is the real problem. The thing he can't say, could never say. Sherlock nods slowly. "Alright."

* * *

><p>Sherlock is dreaming again.<p>

"John!" he pants as if he's been running. He reaches out and John automatically rolls into his arms, burying his head into Sherlock's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, and sweat mingling with sweat.

"It's ok…" John murmurs, his mind still half dreaming. "Just sleep. Everything's fine…" He softly kisses the skin his lips are next to, below Sherlock's ear. His mouth burned with secret delight of it.

Sherlock's fingers are hot on his back, grasping at him as though he's afraid he'd slip away. John feels his pulse begin to race, as though it's trying to catch up with Sherlock's.

"Bloody hell…" Sherlock curses. "I will control this…"

After a time, the intensity of the moment fades. Sherlock's breathing slows and John turns over. However he'd imagined it, John could never have expected the comfortable security of being locked within Sherlock's arms.

And that's how they stay - not just for that night, but for every night after that – with Sherlock's arm protectively wrapped around John and their fingers entwined.

It's the only way to stop the nightmares.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>

* * *

><p><em>N.B. Sorry it's been a while updating. These chapters are taking some writing! I wanted to say thank you so much for the lovely reviews of the first chapter! They make me happy happy happy! 3 Next time: <span>Confessing to You<span>_


	3. Chapter 3: Confessing to You

_Edit: Sorry! Of all the words to spell wrong the code was probably the least helpful ;)_

_._

3. Confessing to You

As John walks up Baker Street, he sees a black Jaguar pulling away from outside 221B.

"Was that your brother?" he asks Sherlock, as soon as he's entered the flat.

"I did check our DNA in primary school and so unfortunately it is not an elaborate fabrication." Sherlock is pacing, his hands in his hair. This is not a good sign.

"What did he want?"

"Just repeating himself. Repeat, repeat, repeat like a boring little… spaniel."

John can't help a small smile. "Spaniel?"

"Yes, spaniel, thank you, John," Sherlock snaps back. He slumps onto the sofa, wraps his knees to his chest and faces the wall.

"Right, is this about the new identity thing?"

Sherlock doesn't respond.

John sits down in the chair nearby and touches the back of Sherlock's neck, twirling a small lock of black hair around his finger. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The detective immediately jumps to his feet, his arms flying outwards, his face hot with venom. "This flat is what's wrong! I hate being stuck in this damn place! I hate pretending to be dead! I want to be alive again! I want to live!"

"Isn't that what Mycroft is suggesting?" John ventures.

"I'm not going to become 'Andrew Smith' from _Dorchester_," Sherlock sneers, "I'm Sherlock Holmes! I'm not going to go and be a beekeeper in the country! Sherlock Holmes!"

"Yes, I know who you are…" John sighs, leaning back in his chair.

"Then you know that I would find it physically impossible to be anyone else."

He shrugs. "But you can't stay in this flat forever."

"Correct, or I really will throw myself off a roof."

This phrase is like a knife in the heart. John's whole chest feels as though it has been split open. "Don't say that." His voice is steely. "Ever."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment then comes and perches in front of John with his hands gripping the doctor's knees. "I'm sorry, John," he says, with an intense gaze. "I didn't mean that."

"I know, it just…"

"I know." Sherlock clears his throat then says quickly, like ripping off a plaster, "You're the only reason I've survived so long in here without loosing my mind."

"Thank you," John replies.

"I mean it."

"Good."

Sherlock smiles in the unnerving way he does when he's attempting to be nice.

"So," John says, "You have a plan?"

"Nope!" Sherlock jumps to his feet and walks to pick up his violin. "Not the foggiest!"

John unfolds the newspaper as Sherlock begins to play.

He wonders if Sherlock realises that he too misses the excitement of the chase. He wants to get their way of life back almost as much as the detective does.

* * *

><p>The heat wave has officially ended, according to the news. Even though the temperature in London remains unusually high, there's probably no longer a real necessity for John to sleep topless. As he waits to see if Sherlock will come to bed tonight, he tries not to think about why he's opted for the scantily clad sleepwear option.<p>

At quarter to two, Sherlock quietly lets himself into his bedroom, tugs off his shirt and trousers and slips beneath the sheets. "You're still awake," he comments.

"Mmhm," John agrees, allowing the detective to run his arm beneath his head and lightly hold him from behind. "I'm thinking."

"A singular occurrence," Sherlock murmurs, his lips close to John's ear. "What are you thinking about?"

John stretches his fingers up over the palm of Sherlock's hand. "Life, my future…"

"The little things," Sherlock quips.

Would it be ridiculous to assume, John wonders, with Sherlock pressed half naked against him, that there is something more than platonic between them? If Sherlock were someone other than who he is, perhaps not. But with a high functioning sociopath it's truly hard to tell. "Sometimes," John ventures, "I think of it like a story book."

"What?"

"My life."

"Oh."

"I think about all the other kinds of stories there are and wonder if we just picked up and left – left Baker Street, or London, England – we could start a whole new story, have a completely different type of adventure."

"You mean," Sherlock says, rolling away onto his back, "instead of the detective story."

"Exactly."

"And what would you prefer? Horror? Romance?"

"It's not what I'd prefer," John explains, turning over to face him. "I just wondered if it'd be possible or not. Just to start again and be something else."

"I suppose," Sherlock replies, incredibly slowly as though the words are difficult to pronounce, "I see life as a detective story. All everyone does is try to work things out for ourselves and make sense of it all."

"Yes, yes, I see. Some people are just considerably better at making sense than others."

"That's why I hate being in here, locked up."

"Why?"

"Because…" He pauses again as though wondering whether this is too much of an admission to make. "I can't do what I do best, can I? I can't deduce a murderer from the colour of his tie. Nothing I do in this flat makes me fascinating to you."

"Really?" John can't help sounding deliriously pleased. "Is that why you hate it?"

"Not the sole reason," Sherlock clarifies.

"Obviously."

To imagine that Sherlock considers his opinion is of such importance is shocking to John, but not as shocking as the fact that he would admit to this.

"You know, that's not true," he says, taking Sherlock's hand again and squeezing it. "You are always fascinating."

"How fantastically condescending of you," Sherlock sneers.

"I was aiming for pleasant."

"You missed."

But he's not really annoyed. They lay in silence for a while, John wondering if they'll fall asleep, but not convinced he's about to.

"Are you not tired then?" Sherlock asks abruptly out of the darkness.

"No, are you?"

"No," Sherlock admits.

"Why did you come to bed, then?"

"I… don't know. Look," Sherlock says hastily, "I've had a thought about how we could do this."

"Do what?"

"Me being alive again."

John sits up a little and rests up on his elbow on the pillow. "Alright, go on."

"It's obviously really."

"Go on, then."

"Moriarty's power was not the lie," Sherlock explains, "but the people's belief in it. So we need them to believe in the truth. Simple."

"Simple? Really?" John is sceptical, particularly as his experience with the general public and their beliefs has not been entirely positive.

"I need you to present the world with the facts in a convincing form so that I can be fully exonerated. Then my reappearance will be less a horrifying, criminal hoax and more a welcome surprise."

"Right, and which part of that exactly is the simple part?"

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound, as though John is being deliberately slow to catch on. "The simple part is that Mycroft has been compiling my defence since the day I fell. Even if everyone always thought I was dead, he'd never be reconciled with people believing I was who Moriarty said I was. He has corrected records and found evidence that in the right hands would prove my innocence irrefutably."

"Right, really? That's fantastic! So we give this to who, Lestrade?"

"The police? Don't be dense, John. We need someone with more power than them."

"Who then?"

"The news! They are the ones who got me into this damn predicament in the first place, aren't they?"

"Yes," John agrees, noticing a slight flaw in this plan, "and then what? You just pop up like 'tah-dah! I faked my own death! Suckers!'"

"Yes, that was exactly my plan," Sherlock responds derisively.

"What then?"

"Mycroft, of course. We tell them that it is exactly what Mycroft wishes it to be. It wasn't my own far-fetched plan but a covert government mission in my own self-defence. These things happen all the time, after all!"

"They do?"

"They really do." Sherlock looks up at John with a hard look on his face. "So, what do you think?"

John thinks for a second and then gives his verdict: "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Let's do it," he says. "It's worth a go. Sounds good to me."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Great." Sherlock pulls John back into his arms again. "It's a good idea isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so." John rests his head within the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock says to himself more then anyone.

* * *

><p>The next day, John returns from buying groceries to find Sherlock sitting with a self-satisfied smile in front of his computer.<p>

"What's going on?" John asks, dumping the shopping in the kitchen.

Sherlock swings around and grins at him. "I've got you a date!"

"Oh yeah? With who?"

"A reporter."

"What? Who?"

Sherlock glances at his watch. "They said they'd send someone round the flat any minute."

"What? Seriously?" John does not feel even a little bit prepared for this. "Now?"

"You can look at the email if you like." Sherlock turns the laptop around to show him.

"But _why_?"

"Well," Sherlock is frowning, as if not sure why John's not understanding this, "I sent round a very interesting package this morning, pretending it was from you, obviously, and they were more than a little intrigued."

"You got all that information from Mycroft? This morning?" John runs his hand through his hair and sits down.

"I'd had it for ages," Sherlock says. "I'd sent it to the police but they did nothing public, obviously."

"So what you're saying is that a reporter is going to be knocking at the door to the flat any moment now."

"Yes, that's exactly what I just said. Well done."

"And aren't they going to be a little surprised to find you here alive and well?"

"Obviously I will lock myself in your room upstairs to avoid detection. And I've cleared away the most noticeable signs of my existence. A normal person won't be able to tell."

"But what do I tell them?"

"Everything," Sherlock says simply, "except from when you found out I was alive."

"God, I've tried to forget that day anyway." It's true. It must have been ecstasy but it felt to John as though his whole head was imploding the first time he saw Sherlock there. Breathing.

"And me." Sherlock rubs his jaw reminiscently. "And don't do that protective thing."

"What thing?"

"The protective thing. You get all closed up and defensive."

It's hard not to be defensive when the whole world thinks the person you care about most is an evil bastard. "Well, they're probably going to ask personal questions. That's all they want."

"Tell them," Sherlock insists. "You need them on our side."

"I don't want to tell them everything."  
>"Why not?"<p>

John frowns slightly to give what he says gravitas. "I prefer something's to be private, something's only we know."

Sherlock smirks. "You mean like our little secret? I think the fact I'm still alive is quite a big one. Or should we create our own coded language?"

"Forget it," John mutters as the doorbell rings. His heart jolts.

"That's her," Sherlock predicts.

"How do you know it's a woman?"

He rolls his eyes. "Obvious."

"Go and hide then! Jesus. I do not feel good about this." John can't quite believe Sherlock would give him so little time to prepare for this. When they'd spoken about it last night, it seemed to John to be a general plan, not one that would be mostly underway by the time he'd picked up some groceries the next day.

Sherlock recognises the panic in his eyes and takes John's hand, squeezing it. "I am fairly certain that this will be fine. I trust you." His eyes search John's and he offers a small smile.

The doorbell rings again.

"I hope you're bloody right, this time."

"I'm always right!"

"Get upstairs," John hisses.

He watches Sherlock bound up the stairs before going down to the entrance hall. He pulls back the front door to reveal a pair of bright blue eyes blinking up at him through large thick-rimmed glasses. "Dr. Watson?" the eyes ask.

"Urm… yes," John decides after a seconds thought.

"I'm Saffron May, from…"

"Oh, yes, of course, come in." John engages his brain and hops back from the door and lets the slight and unexpectedly young woman into the dark entranceway. "I'm upstairs."

John takes a deep breath. All he has to remember is that Sherlock isn't alive. He isn't alive and he definitely isn't in his room upstairs. John am sad because he is dead and he wasn't talking to him a moment ago.

Saffron follows him up the stairs, and when John looks back he sees a smile lighting her bright lips. "This is 221B…"

"This is it."

"Sorry." She blushes slightly and grins up at him. "It's just, I was a bit of a fan of your blog."

"Ah. I see."

"Yeah, I was pretty excited when they asked me to do this. I suppose you get that all the time."

"Not really." John can't help smiling at her enthusiasm. "Definitely not so much these days."

Saffron pauses at the entrance to the flat then her unfashionably practical buckled shoes take slow steps into the room. "So, this is where you lived together," she says with uncontained eagerness.

"Urm, yes."

Her fingers glance across books and articles littering the surfaces. "Are these his things? Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Some of them. I can't quite bring myself to get rid of everything." For some reason John suddenly feels as though he's doing something wrong in lying. It's this girl and her innocence. Her hair is really too long for someone over twenty. It's dirty blonde hair and she wears it falling in one tail over her shoulder.

"You must miss him." She glances across at him, her eyes sensitive and considerate.

John just nods. "Do you want a drink?"

"Cup of tea?"

"I'll put the kettle on." He moves into the kitchen and she follows.

"Do you mind if I use my dictaphone?" she asks, pulling one out of her leather satchel, along with a notebook and pen. "I have a shitty memory."

"Go ahead."

"Thanks. So," she begins, glancing at her notes, "Sherlock Holmes was for real then."

She states it with such provocative simplicity that John chuckles. "Yes, that's the general idea," he says.

"I was wondering if you have heard of the 'I believe in Sherlock' movement?"

"No…" John raises his eyebrows.

Saffron beams up at him. "Much of the information you provided us with has been uncovered and dissected by this online community."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think you'll find a surprisingly large number of people not shocked by our newspaper's revelations tomorrow. How does that make you feel?"

"That's amazing. It's good to know that the whole world wasn't against us."

Saffron crunches her face up in an affectionate smile.  
>"What?"<p>

"No, that's just sweet."

"What?"

"Well, it was only Sherlock Holmes the world was against. But you speak as though that's the same as them being against you. That is sweet. You get brownie points there."

"Excellent. Are you keeping a tally?" he asks, pretending to peer at her notebook.

"Oi!" she laughs, jerking her notebook into the folds of her mustard yellow shirt. "Maybe I'll put that in the article! Now," she puts on a serious face, "could you tell us about Sherlock? Could you describe what he was like?"

"Well, it's hard to put really. He's not, I mean, he wasn't urm…"

"He wasn't someone who a lot of people could get along with," she suggests.

"Well, no," John admits. "He was abrupt and thoughtless. He called himself a sociopath."

"A sociopath? But you were friends."

"We were."

"Why do you think that was?"

"Even if it's difficult, some people are worth getting to know."

"Fantastic," Saffron says with a grin.  
>"What?"<p>

"No, that's just a great thing to say."

"Is it?"

"Definitely. Anyway," she takes a seat at the kitchen table, "what was it like living with this sociopath then?"

"Well, I was never bored."

"I bet."

"Sugar?"

"No, thanks."

John smiles and passes Saffron a cup of tea then sits down opposite her at the table. "There was rarely a time where there wasn't something going on. He needed to solve the mysteries. He was so clever that his brain needed the exercise or something. He needed the work."

"Of course Richard Brook claimed he was so bored that Sherlock created a master criminal and paid him to play at being evil."

"Yes, it does sound ridiculous when you say it like that."

"A lot of people believed him though." Saffron leans with her pointy elbows on the table as if interrogating him. "What made you so convinced Sherlock Holmes was for real?"

John leans back in his seat. "That's something I've asked myself a lot since his death. It's just not enough to say I felt it, but I did. Sherlock could be a difficult person to be around. He was excellent at making people think he didn't care but anyone who knew him, who really knew him, me, Mrs Hudson downstairs, well, I don't know how to put it." He shakes his head. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man."

"Did you love him?"

John looks up at her, startled by the directness of the question. She is smiling at him expectantly. "I urm, no! We never… I'm straight."

"Oh, right. And single?"

The excited way in which she says this, with her eyes wide and trained on his, makes John smile as he says, "Yes."

"Good," she says. "I mean, and what about Sherlock Holmes? How did he feel about you? From what you've told us, he died protecting you."

John shakes his head. "Sherlock was married to his work. He didn't think about things like that. He never had a girlfriend as far as I'm aware."

"Or a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Never?" she asks hopefully.

"He was never a sexual person. Not when I knew him."

After this, the questions move into more comfortable territory. It isn't particularly hard for John to play the grieving friend because the pain is still raw in his memory. When Saffron finally puts her dictaphone and notebook back into her satchel, she pulls out a card and passes it to John as they walk to the door.

"Here's my card, if you, you know, have anything to add or anything. Thank you so much! It was great to meet you!"

"Thank you," John says, shaking her hand. "It was great… urm meeting you too."

She giggles and turns away, her hair bobbing as she walks down the stairs. "Can I just say," she says as they open the front door, "I'm really sorry for your loss." She smiles with sad solemnity. "It must just be unbearable having a light like that extinguished from your life."

"Thank you," John says, not quite meeting her eyes.

When he gets back into the flat Sherlock is sitting on the sofa with a deeply unimpressed look on his face.

"Well," he says, "it's clear that you fancied her."

"What?" John exclaims. "Sherlock, she's way to young for -"

"I'm not blind," comes the expected sneer.

"No, but you were locked in the room upstairs."

Sherlock folds his arms. "You're flushed."

"It's warm."

"You liked her."

John puts his hands on his hips. "Are you jealous?"

Sherlock contorts his face into a look of complete disdain and scoffs, "Jealous?"

"You are, aren't you?"

"No, John. As much as that would please your narrow ideas of romance, I am more concerned about Miss May's motives behind being so _enthusiastic_ with you."

"What, because it's not possible she was a fan of my blog?"

"Of course it's _possible_ but is it probable?"

John scowls in response so Sherlock continues.

"Well, you've owned to the fact that she was young and attractive. To have that job she must be relatively intelligent and successful. You, on the other hand, are pushing forty, slightly chubby, have no real job and you think she was drooling over you because of the blog you wrote on the internet about me. Oh please, John. She was playing you."

The look of complete derision scrawled across Sherlock features makes John's "You know, not everyone fits into your little idea of how the world works, Sherlock. Some people do the unexpected some of the time."

"You admit that her flirting with you was unexpected."

"You are impossible." He grabs his jacket and slings it on.

"Where are you going?"

"Fresh air!"

John slams the door behind him.

By the time John has circumnavigated Regent's Park twice, he decides that in fact Sherlock had been jealous. John may not be a genius but he has had experience in this field. A person who you are close to being angry with you immediately after another person showing interest in you means jealously, no matter what other reasons or insults they can concoct. This makes John feel a little calmer and, to be honest, slightly pleased with himself. After all, it is not a small thing to have Sherlock Holmes being jealous.

In this forgiving and slightly euphoric frame of mind, John makes his way back towards Baker Street.

They don't mention it again.

* * *

><p>"Where are you going?"<p>

It's late afternoon and Sherlock is doing something he hasn't done for months: putting on his shoes. "Now that the truth is out there it would be better for me to be 'sighted' rather than for me to reveal myself," he explains while doing up his laces. "Then it seems as though I would've wished for it to stay a secret, for everyone's safety."

"When in fact you're not really bothered about anyone's safety. Just your boredom levels."

"Exactly."

"I'll come with you then," John says, reaching for his jacket. "We can get ourselves spotted together."

"No," Sherlock insists. "We don't want you to be implicated, that there be even a suggestion that you have been lying to the press."

"Fine, fine, makes sense." He sits down on the sofa and picks up the paper. "Don't be too long."

"Before I go, urm," Sherlock pauses and then produces a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his coat. "This is for you."

"What's this?" John asks, taking the proffered note and opening it. Inside, in Sherlock's childish scrawl is written:

_Picasso Basoalto '7th prime'_

"Is this some kind of code?"

"It's to start our secret code language. It's a thank you – no." Sherlock shakes his head then looks into John's eyes with a piercing gaze. "It's a confession."

"A confession? I'm not a priest, Sherlock."

"No, you're not."

John reads the note again. "You're not giving me any clues, are you?"

"Definitely not," Sherlock says with relish, turning to go. "I've already given you plenty of clues already. I decided it needed spelling out."

"Right," John puts it down on the coffee table. "I'll text you when I work it out."

"I won't hold my breath." And Sherlock leaves the flat.

John doesn't play the violin and staring into space just makes him bored so he immediately opens Google instead. It takes him several searches to understand what is written but later that evening, when Sherlock had still not returned, he eventually cracks the code behind Sherlock's greatest and most beautiful confession.

He picks up his phone and writes a quick text:

_I didn't know you read poetry_._ JW_

.

.

_To be continued…_

_._

_._

_N.B. Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed! Don't pretend Saffron wasn't exactly how you'd be in her position… ;D and sorry for the code! I just thought it was much better without saying explicitly what it meant. Hopefully it's pretty obvious and you can work it out. If you can't be arsed let me know and I'll reveal in the next chapter. Sorry if this is annoying!_


	4. Chapter 4: Kissing You

4. Kissing You

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_in secret, between the shadow and the soul. _

.

'Love' is clearly an experiment for Sherlock and like all Holmesian experiments must be treated with extreme caution. John is not about to make any rash movements. He has lost his best friend once already in the last year and losing him twice would come across as careless.

It would take a much less rational man than John Watson not to wonder 'why'. Why John should love Sherlock Holmes is obvious to anyone who has stood in a room with the two of them for thirty seconds but John just can't make it out from the other perspective. There is one perfectly reasonable explanation that he can't quite get out of his head: Sherlock is bored.

Before the fall Sherlock had never made an advance on his friendship with John. He had other things to occupy his time, namely, solving mysteries. Mysteries when locked within the four walls of 221B Baker Street were severely limited. It's not inconceivable that when Sherlock's death has blown over and everything goes back to normal, that's what their relationship would return to as well. And Sherlock's mind will once again be consumed by things other than John.

.

They're both woken by the sound of John's phone vibrating offensively on the bedside table. It takes a long time for the sound to penetrate John's sleep.

"John," Sherlock moans, rolling out of the doctor's arms and covering his head with a pillow.

John yawns and runs a hand over his face before opening his eyes slightly. By the light of the room he can tell it's becoming morning.

"Jaawwnn…"

"Ok." He turns and clutches the phone off the bedside table. He sighs. "It's Lestrade."

Sherlock doesn't respond, his head hidden but his long, pale back stretched out vulnerably.

So John answers the phone. "Hello," he says, groggily.

"John," Lestrade's voice is urgent, "are you awake?"

"Clearly." He leans over and runs a soft hand down Sherlock's back. It's warm with sleep.

Lestrade pauses, as if he'd only thought this far into the conversation.

"What's wrong?" John prompts.

"Have you heard the news?"

John looks at the clock. "It's half five in the morning. I'm unemployed. What do you think?"

"It's… him," Lestrade says.

"Who?" John has a pretty good idea what has happened though.

"Sherlock. He's been spotted, in London. There were photos. It's him. He's alive."

This is what John had been dreading most, these conversations. He had never been someone who was good with the casual lie. "What?" he says, attempting to sound blank and disbelieving.

"Sherlock is alive."

"Hang on," John says and without waiting for a response he presses the mute button. He tries to lift the pillow from Sherlock's head but strong hands cling onto it.

"Go away," comes the muffled command.

"You're alive," John says.

"What?" Sherlock sits up immediately and grasps John's arm, sending shivers down the doctor's spine.

"It's in the news."

"Has there been a statement from the government or the police?"

"I don't know. Lestrade just told me." John holds up the phone to show it's on mute.

Sherlock holds out his hand. "Let me talk to him."

"No."

"This is…" Sherlock takes John's face in his hands and grips him. The distance between their noses, their lips, decreases so instantly that John can almost feel Sherlock's sharp in take of breath. Their eyes lock together and for a moment the world is nothing except the feel of Sherlock hands on John and the air that is passing between them. When Sherlock doesn't close the gap between them, John does, pressing their lips together.

Sherlock freezes for a moment that is just long enough for John to feel a panic, then he kisses back, his mouth hot and urgent. Sherlock's hands run from John's face and grasp his hair, tugging him in deeper, half soft, half violent. The need has taken over John so he's no longer aware of what he's doing. Touching Sherlock, holding him, biting him, John is possessed.

They peel apart and Sherlock's eyes search John's. "… _fantastic_."

"I agree," John says, with a guilty smile.

A half laugh hops from Sherlock.

"John? Hello?" They hear the shouts faintly from the phone that has been forgotten on the bedclothes.

John picks it up and unmutes it, without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Sorry, Greg. I'm here."

"Have you looked at the TV?"

"Urm, no," John admits then says, "Are you serious? He can't be alive."

"Yes, he is."

"Really?"

Sherlock has an insane grin on his face as though all of his Christmas' have come at once. He had jumped up and pulled on some trousers, as though he was going to run out and enjoy his liberty, but now he seems to change his mind and sits down opposite John, reaching out and touching his earlobe then running his hand down John's neck. It seems he's not quite sure which is most exciting – being alive or kissing John.

John bats him away and tries to concentrate on being shocked and upset, which is made considerably more difficult by the fact that in reality he is bursting with secret delight.

Perhaps Lestrade notices the inapplicably flippant tone of John's voice. "Are you alright? Do you want to come in?"

"Did you know?" John asks.

"No," Lestrade insists. "They have been investigating the whole Richard Brooks thing but no one thought that he'd actually, you know. I've no fucking clue how he did it."

"No, no idea," John agrees. Sherlock is trying to kiss him again, but John pushes him away, putting a finger to his lips and trying to seem stern.

"John, I know this must be a shock. Look, I'll send a car around for you."

Sherlock has narrowed his eyes and looks as if he is about to pounce. This is something that John is eager that he should do.

"Greg, I'll call you back."

"Just take some time to calm down, John. Don't do anything crazy." He sounds genuinely concerned but John can't find it in himself to care.

"Fine, I won't."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yes, bye."

Sherlock hangs the phone up for him and throws it on the floor.

"Look, Sherlock," John says, as he is pushed down onto the bed, "are you sure this is…" Sherlock has climbed on top of him and is about to stop John's mouth with a kiss when someone knocks lightly at the bedroom door.

"Shit."

Sherlock jumps to his feet just as Mrs Hudson pushes open the door. "Yoo- hoo – oh!"

"No!" John scrambles to his feet too and grabs a t-shirt from the floor. "It's not what it looks like, Mrs Hudson." Though he can't work out too many reasons Sherlock may have for straddling him half naked.

Mrs Hudson shields her eyes with one hand. "Don't mind me, dears. I shouldn't have burst in on you." She makes to back out of the room.

"No, wait," John splutters, "Sherlock was just, I was…"

Fortunately, Sherlock's superior intellect steps up the plate before Mrs Hudson has chance to runaway. "Mrs Hudson, John's decided he wants this room. We've not swopped our clothes around yet though. I was just getting a shirt to wear. There's really no need to assume we're having some elicit sexual affair."

Mrs Hudson lowers her hand and looks sceptically up at the topless detective. "That is no concern of mine, dear. I was only coming to tell you that your brother is here, Sherlock. He did say not to disturb you." She gives them a look to show she understands why now. "He's in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John says as she leaves them be then mutters, "Great timing as always, Mycroft."

Sherlock is quickly dressing, a smile still on his face. He reaches for the door handle and then pauses, looking back at John. "Are you coming?"

"Not even close," John quips, "Mrs Hudson is a major turn-off."

Sherlock lowers his hand and turns to face John properly. "Did you…?" he falters.

John clears his throat then suggests, "Enjoy that?"

"Did you?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nods to himself, clearly glad of this confirmation. This sweet, child-like gesture makes John smile and ache with tenderness for the detective.

"I'm sorry to intrude on you, boys," Mycroft sneers as they both walk into the kitchen. "I hope you weren't in the middle of something important."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his older brother and says, "Yes, _sleeping_."

Mycroft is sitting at the kitchen table. He unfolds a newspaper and holds it up so that they can see the headline. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES LIVES'. Beneath this is the unmistakeable image of the detective in his distinguishing coat. "Well, you two have clearly been keeping yourself busy."

Sherlock grabs the newspaper and laughs. "Front page!"

John nods appreciatively. "Those are good photographs."

"Yes," Mycroft chips in, "he's quite the cover model. Now you've been officially uncovered, I had hoped to find you not here, Sherlock."

"Why?" John demands.

Mycroft keeps his eyes on his brother. "Do you want to explain it to him, or should I?"

Sherlock sighs and says, "I suspected this was why you were here. I'm not leaving."

"Then this has all been for nothing."

"Sorry," John interrupts, "but what are you talking about?"

Sherlock turns on John with a frustration that is really for Mycroft. "He thinks I should move away from Baker Street, away from you."

"Why?"

"To avoid the press from suspecting the truth."

"What truth?"

"Don't fret," Mycroft simpers, "I doubt 'Holmes and Watson are secret lovers' would be a shock exclusive."

Sherlock ignores this. "That you'd known I was alive. It might lead them to think they've been fooled again."

"You were an idiot to step foot into this flat," Mycroft comments, twirling his umbrella.

"Go then," John says, making Mycroft look up in surprise. "He's right. You shouldn't be here."

Sherlock falters for a moment. "But I…"

"I know, but it's more important, isn't it?"

Sherlock pouts and says in the most childish way imaginable, "No."

"Seriously?" John moans.

Sherlock folds his arms in response. "I'm not going."

Mycroft smiles at them as if he'd more than expected this eventuality. "I will say this, little brother: I will not do what you would like me to, if you don't do what I would like you to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock spits.

"Well, I supposed now was precisely when you were hoping a government statement would be released explaining away this whole fiasco so that you and Dr Watson could get on with your own special version of domestic bliss." Mycroft's smile fails to fool anyone in the room into thinking what he is saying is pleasant. "This will not happen unless you leave this flat with me now and don't come back."

"What, forever?" John can't help gasping.

Mycroft shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "A week at least."

"Blackmail is such a noble response to the situation," Sherlock says, glaring at his brother.

"Ignoble, perhaps," Mycroft responds with a nod, "yet it has got this great country of ours to where it is today."

* * *

><p><em>I love you as the plant that never blooms<em>

_but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; _

.

"God, John, you look like, well, shit," Lestrade says as the doctor walks into his office a few days later.

"Thank you, that's, yes, comforting." John sinks into a seat as though he's carrying a boulder.

"I would ask if you want a coffee but I can already see that it's going to be a yes."

"Alright, thank you! I feel fine, actually," John lies. He hasn't slept well since Sherlock left the flat. He did feel alright for the first day, it was just very quiet. Then after staring at his inanimate phone for fifty-four minutes the next morning he self-diagnosed a mild depression. He tried to keep himself busy but all of the things that made him feel alive seem to have been taken from him.

"Have you seen him then?" Lestrade asks, pouring them both a coffee.

"Who?"

Lestrade sighs. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, urm, yes," John decides. "He told me to meet him here today actually. He text me this morning."

"Of course he did," Lestrade grumbles and pours an extra coffee. "I've not seen him. Does he take sugar?"

"Yes."

Lestrade passes John a mug then sits down behind his desk. "Did you read the statement released by the government?"

"Yes, I did."

"So it looks like he's in the clear then."

"Can I just ask," John says, leaning forward in his seat, "I mean, I know we never talked about it but did you…?"

"Did I what?"

John frowns and says, "Did you believe him? Did you believe Moriaty?"

"No," Lestrade says quickly, "I mean, well, it's easy to say now, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." John isn't sure if he believes Lestrade or even if he really cares. Why shouldn't Lestrade have believed Moriaty? Everyone else did. Does John really want Lestrade, or anyone, to care for Sherlock the way he does?

"Hello," comes a deep voice behind John.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade says in a half laugh.

John spins around and looks up at the

"I need to use your office," Sherlock says abruptly, completely ignoring John.

"What?" Lestrade responds.

"It's an inconspicuous place for John and I meet."

"Right…" Lestrade shakes his head, "and what exactly is wrong with a coffee shop?"

"Exposed."

"Your flat?"

"Implicating."

"Urm, the library?"

"Too quiet."

"Surely meeting me at Scotland Yard is implicating," John points out.

"Really?" Sherlock groans. "Are we still talking about this? I must have forgotten how tiresome it is to converse with imbeciles."

"We missed you too," Lestrade mutters.

"A routine chat with the police after you've faked your own death is fairly common place, surely." Sherlock glares at Lestrade's blank face then snaps, "Ok, can you get out right now?"

"This is my office!"

"Well observed," Sherlock says icily. "Now vacate it. I need to talk to John."

Lestrade sighs as though he had expected no less from his reunion with the consulting detective. He gets to his feet, negotiates the desk and pauses momentarily in front of Sherlock, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. He decides against and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

"Sherlock, I…" John gets to his feet and takes an automatic step towards him then falters, glancing to the glass that separates them from an office full of police officers. "Could we close the -?"

Sherlock grasps John by the shoulders and jerks him into an embrace, inhaling deeply as if the doctor was cigarette smoke and he was getting his fix.

John's arms are pinned to his sides. "Sherlock," he gasps, "you're… crushing… me."

"I don't care." But he loosens his grip slightly.

"It's only been four days." John points out.

"I haven't slept."

"I think I can tell."

Sherlock's fingers find John's face and he holds him so that he stares into John's eyes, just like that morning that John can't quite believe was real.

"People are going to talk," John says.

Sherlock instantaneously lets go of John and looks mildly wounded as he sits down.

"I urm, missed you," John offers and Sherlock sniffs. "Are you coming home now?"

Sherlock doesn't meet his eyes and plays with a pen on Lestrade's desk. "Mycroft thinks I shouldn't move back in with you. He spoke a lot about fresh starts and new beginnings."

"Well, Mycroft can go fuck himself," John bites.

Sherlock smirks as if this is exactly the kind of response he had been hoping for.

"Seriously, though?" John flops into the chair opposite Sherlock and runs a hand through his hair. "Surely everything's calming down now. Isn't it time to go back to normal?"

"Normal?" Sherlock says questioningly. "And how exactly would you define 'normal' at 221B Baker Street?"

"Us. Together."

"You call that normal?" Sherlock smiles but his eyes look weary and sad. "Mycroft thinks it won't last."

"Oh, right, for a minute there I forgot that Mycroft 'Iceman' Holmes was the country's leading relationship expert."

Sherlock doesn't smile but looks at John as if he's transmitting some important information he's not sure will be understand. "His observations aren't wrong though, John. How long can we realistically sustain our friendship?"

A panic rises in his throat and John's heart begins to thump in protest. "Come back and we'll find out together."

Sherlock takes a deep breath and says, "I'm not sure I should do that."

"What?" John jumps to his feet in hot anxiety. "Yes! You are! I will fucking make you!"

"John, calm down."

"No, I will not calm down. You can't just say that, it's not a choice you get to make on your own! Not after… not after everything."

Sherlock raises his arms resignedly. "It makes sense. You're safer without me. Why would you want me anyway?"

"You – you know why!" John feels himself paralysed by something that is on the spectrum between rage and terror. "Sherlock, you – we - !"

A smirk is slowly spreading across Sherlock's face, which makes it impossible for John to continue.

"What?" he asks. Then, as Sherlock begins to laugh, he feels his face fall into a dark scowl. "You're coming back, aren't you?" he predicts.

"Of course I'm coming back," Sherlock says with a matter of fact wide smile, getting to his feet. "I'm not a masochist."

"No," John clenches his fist. "Definitely the other thing."

"A sadist?"

"An asshole. A complete bloody asshole."

Sherlock laughs again and pats his friend on the shoulder. "John, I told you that I haven't slept since we last saw each other. I know your brain is tiny but can it really think that I will voluntarily leave your side ever again? You make it pathetically easy to provoke an emotional reaction."

John rolls his eyes. "Congratulations. You win."

"I do."

They eye each other for a moment then Sherlock says, "I love you."

"I know," John quickly responds and they grin.

* * *

><p><em>I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. <em>

_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; _

.

Sherlock sits down on the coffee table facing John. "I've got a confession to make."

John, sitting on the sofa, doesn't look up from his newspaper. "I don't mind if you use the microwave. Just this time disinfect it a couple of times after."

"No, it's not to do with that," Sherlock says irritably. "It's about that other thing."

"What thing?"

"You know, the thing you said about not being my boyfriend."

John looks blankly at the detective. "What?"

"Keep up! When you said the things we needed to be boyfriends. There was a list."

"Sherlock, that was weeks ago." He can't help allowing a smile to twitch across his face.

"Yes, well, I've been doing them," Sherlock explains. "The things you said we needed to do."

John laughs.

A frowns burrows itself onto Sherlock's forehead. "What?"

"Well, I had noticed!"

"What do you mean, you'd _noticed_."

John puts down his newspaper and taking both of Sherlock's bony hands in his own. "Of course I'd noticed. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"Yes, you are," Sherlock says, stooping to kiss both of John's hands in turn.

"Obviously not."

"So, I can call you my partner now?" Sherlock moves in close towards John. "Or my boyfriend?"

"No."

"No?" Sherlock's head jerks away in evident shock. "What? Why not? What did I miss?"

"There was one thing," John says, gently kissing Sherlock's jaw line, "that I hadn't mentioned."

"What?"

John reaches to Sherlock belt and calmly undoes it. He eases the fingers of one hand beneath Sherlock's underwear.

"Oh," Sherlock says.

"Ok?"

"Yes." The sexiest monosyllable as it rumbles out on Sherlock's breath. "Alright."

.

Holding Sherlock in his arms after is totally different from before. His skin is hot and damp with sweat and he wears a look of peace like a sleeping child. John isn't worried about where he puts his hands or where he doesn't and he's not concerned that the feel of their bodies together feels too good.

John realises as his mind drifts into sleep that there is no 'why', there is just this. Just no other way than this.

.

_where I does not exist, nor you, _

_so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, _

_so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. _

.

.

_The End._

.

.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you everyone who's reviewed this story. It's really kind and definitely gives me confidence. I really hope you enjoyed the chapter! (this one has been the hardest to write by far! <span>Me after two hours<span>_ _in front of the computer: 'So they definitely __**kiss**__…')_

_And for those who were wondering, this is the poem Sherlock gave to John in a 'code':_

_Sonnet XVII_

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Translated by Stephen Tapscott


End file.
